


Imperfection

by JadeRiverDay



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Music, College Musicians AU, F/M, Prussia plays flute, Vietnam plays violin, uwu, what could possibly go wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:47:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23739316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeRiverDay/pseuds/JadeRiverDay
Summary: He wasn't perfect enough.So why is she asking this?edit: ok so after reading this over a few times I decided to change the title from """This""" to Imperfection because """This""" is a reference to the rp and it doesn't fit as well as I thought it would be so oh well
Relationships: Prussia/Vietnam (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Imperfection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lotus_Dumplings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lotus_Dumplings/gifts).



> I challenged myself to write 1k words in 2 hours but I didn't get to 2 hours and I didn't get to 1k words
> 
> ~~anyways I love Lotus' Prussia a lot ok~~
> 
> Prussia is Gilbert bc I'm not making another name for him and Vietnam is Vivian now you can fight me

“Why are you afraid?”

He hated how her question _stung_ , as gentle as it was. He was perfect, he was supposed to be perfect, but his _music_ wasn’t and he couldn’t live with that. She told him once that unique was good, but she never said that unique was _perfect_ , and he desperately needed that perfection because it was the one thing that defined him. If his music wasn’t perfect, what music could he play? He wasn’t even a real musician; he shouldn’t have been in the practice room where he met her, but he kept coming back. Why? 

“It’s—” he choked on his words and he screamed internally at that. Not perfect, not good enough. Out of his shame, he cast his eyes away from her, who always listened and always understood. Somehow. She was too good for him, way out of his league, far closer to perfection that he could ever be, but just like him, she always came back.

He doesn’t know, doesn’t understand how Vivian always knew what he was about to say. He can’t see her, couldn’t bring himself to see her, but he could hear her all too well.

“I’m not here to judge, Gilbert,” he could hear her gently murmur. “I never have been, and I never will. That’s not what musicians do, well, at least, that’s what they shouldn’t do.” He heard her sigh, and something shifted. Was it him, or was it her? 

She continued. “To tell you the truth, I was impressed.”

What? How? He could feel how her eyes were no longer on him. What was she doing? Not… criticizing him like how other people would. No, that couldn’t be right, but he said nothing.

“It was… original, something I had never heard before and never thought I would. The first thought I had when I heard you play was ‘that isn’t how it’s supposed to be played’—”

There it was. He knew it was wrong, and she just confirmed it. Yet, as much as it confirmed what he knew, it still hurt that she thought of him like that. He let his guard down, and she knew it so why? Why was she…?

“But that’s not what’s important.”

That shocked him. He dared to look at her, only to find that she, too, was looking down, not daring to look up at his eyes too. Why was she being the shy one here? She was the real musician, not him, so why was she holding back?

_Dumbass. It’s the same reason you hold back too._

“What’s truly important is how you play the music, how you interpret it. Composers give you notes, dynamics, some funny Italian to work with, but it’s up to you to really make it reality, right? It’s like giving some painters some colors to work with. Will all the painters have the same result? Will all the painters… paint something happy? Sad? Somewhere in the middle? Are they all acceptable? Yes! 

“It’s the same thing with us. We just get more restrictions, more people telling us what’s been done before, what we should do now, what funny Italian we should add, what symbols we should follow, but in the end, it’s up to us to paint that picture, right? 

“What if a painter spills paint onto the canvas? Is the canvas ruined, or should the painter work with it? It’s just like us with our own instruments and our own techniques. Even spilled paint can be beautiful, and even our own mistakes while playing can… work with our pieces.”

But that doesn’t mean that it would be perfect, he wanted to say. She said that it could “work”, not “excel” or make it “perfect”. Spilled paint wasn’t perfect, and neither were his mistakes. She was a real musician; surely her mistakes were perfect, but he wasn’t and neither were his mistakes.

“Gilbert.”

He snapped his eyes towards her, only to find her looking straight into his eyes again. He almost shrunk back out of… what? Fear? Shame? But he didn’t. She obviously had something to say, and it looked like she wanted his eyes on hers.

“I have to be honest with you.”

Oh no.

“I loved your playing only when you let go.”

What? What did that even mean? His confusion must have been written all over his face, and she continued, but now, her eyes were back to the ground.

“I loved it when I could feel what you were feeling, like I could understand who you really were. I loved it when I could hear all of your practice from all the years that you’ve played flute… come out naturally, without a second thought. I loved it even when you stopped, when you stumbled through the music because you thought it wasn’t good enough, because those were the times that you were really _in_ the music, and those were the times you made it yours and no one else’s. I love the music when it’s _yours_ , Gilbert, and I want to keep loving that music that’s yours. So please.” She looked up and locked eyes with him, and it occurred to Gilbert that he had never seen her so vulnerable. Never in her eyes. Never like this.

“Please, play imperfectly.”

Gilbert couldn’t settle for anything less than perfect. Perfect wasn’t even real, but then again, music wasn’t real either. This wasn’t the world that he could play music in because it wasn’t _his_. She could make her way through this world with her music, but there was no way that he could with his imperfection.

So why then?

Why did he want to listen to her?


End file.
